


Semper Terraneum

by L_H_Catullus



Category: Discworld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_H_Catullus/pseuds/L_H_Catullus
Summary: Ella Rust believes in rules. She has to. Considering that killing comes as naturally to her as breathing, without rules, she'd just kill everyone. She needs the rules to tell her who she can and can’t kill. That same preference for rules is why she has repeatedly failed to graduate her first year at the Assassin's Guild School - Despite the best efforts of the guildmaster. So when she's sent on a seemingly impossible mission, she's damn set on completing it anyway.Accompanied by a troll who may and may not be the goddess Anoia, an unusually honest lawyer, and the Disc's only qualified Normal-To-Ella translator, she sets out after the biggest target on (or under) The Disc. But with the help of the mad artificer Kallionates, the ever-deadly girl is going to have to do the one thing she doesn't want to do - Decide who lives and who dies without any rules to guide her.Set on a world barely too far to see and far too close for comfort - a story of action, adventure, chellonicide, and a dog named Ig.
Kudos: 6





	1. An Early Epilogue; Or, Why You Should Never Go Anywhere Without a Book

  
  


This is a story about endings.  
  
And so it is probably good that it begins with one. 

Far below the streets of Ankh Morpork, the girl laughed, and stood up. It wasn’t difficult. On the one hand, she was standing in something of a crater, which made the terrain quite uneasy. On the other hand, the girl had always been good at standing on uneasy terrain, so that was little problem. Besides. She was fairly certain she was dead. It wouldn’t have been easy to survive what had just happened, and she knew mortal wounds when she saw them.  
  
And so she looked around. Either the person she was looking at had suffered an UNUSUALLY mortal wound, or it was a confirmation that she had merely suffered the usual sort. 

“Good evening,” the girl said.  
  
IS IT? asked the figure, I RARELY GET TO SEE THOSE. I’M USUALLY ONLY PRESENT FOR BAD ONES. 

“Well,” the girl frowned, now somewhat deep in thought, “I thought that was just what you were supposed to say. Do YOU think it’s a good evening?”  
  
NO, answered the figure, NOR DO I THINK IT’S A BAD ONE. I TEND TO LEAVE THAT DECISION TO OTHERS. OF WHICH THERE ARE MANY.  
  
The girl nodded seriously, “I don’t see them.”  
  
YOU WOULDN’T. NOT FROM HERE.

The girl nodded. She stood in the rocky ground, and looked around.  
  
“Did I do it?”  
  
THAT DEPENDS, said the figure, ON WHAT IT IS YOU MEANT TO DO. 

“I mean,” said the girl, “Did I kill him? And them? The rest of them? The ones I wanted to kill?”  
  
SOME answered the figure.  
  
“The others?”  
  
WILL BE ALONG IN TIME, the figure answered.  
  
“Good,” the girl said with a smile, experimenting with her footing. Occasionally, a trick of the shadows made her think a rock might be there when it wasn’t. To her surprise, her foot managed to land on it anyway. That would be useful, she decided. They stood in silence for a while, and then, the girl tilted her head. She looked like a dog whose owner has gestured rapidly with a hand, and yet no ball has come out. 

“What comes next?” She answered.  
  
THAT, said Death, I CANNOT TELL YOU. 

“Do you know?” She pressed the issue.  
  
YES, said Death, BUT I CANNOT TELL YOU, BECAUSE I AM NOT IN YOUR HEAD. Having had a few encounters with the girl, although usually secondhand, he bypassed the explanation of metaphor by adding, MY SKELETON IS TOO LARGE.  
  
“Oh well, I guess that makes sense,” the girl sighed as if disappointed, “I wonder if I would have been tall. My dad was very tall. But then again we weren’t related, so I’m not sure if that would have passed on...”  
  
Death thought of his granddaughter, who had inherited a slap from her father, and didn’t answer. 

“Why can’t you tell me?”  
  
THE ANSWER DEPENDS ON WHAT YOU EXPECT.  
  
“I didn’t expect to die.”  
  
FEW DO, Death answered.  
  
The considered this. She was aware that was probably true, but had seen (and often caused) so many expected deaths that she wasn’t used to the idea of unexpected ones. 

“I think I didn’t expect more than most,” she concluded, “I could go wherever you took my father?”  
  
THERE ARE MANY PLACES, Death answered.

“Do you have a list?”  
  
YES. I HAVE CHECKED IT. TWICE, he sounded rather proud, I LEARNED TO DO THAT A FEW YEARS AGO, he added with a tone of satisfaction.

THE OMNIANS BELIEVE THAT YOU WILL GO ACROSS A LONG DESERT.  
  
“I’ve done that already.”  
  
IN DJELIBEYBI, THEY BELIEVE THAT YOU WILL WAKE UP IN ANOTHER WORLD, IN THE BODY YOU ARE IN TODAY.  
  
The girl examined the remnants of the craterous explosion, with a look that said she suspected that would be inadvisable, especially if anyone came in with a dustpan. Death continued on, hoping he might help. He had seen many people in his time, almost all of them, but he always felt bad about the children. Even ones like this one. He couldn’t help it. It had been many years since he was a father, but the instinct had remained.  
  
It was, one might say, in his bones.  
  
ZOMBIFICATION, OF COURSE, he continued, MAY NOT BE ADVISABLE IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES. LET US SEE. THERE ARE SOME IN KLATCH WHO EXPECT YOU WILL MEET 72 VIRGINS. 

  
“Oh? What do you do with them?” Asked the girl, in the innocent tone of someone who knew there was an answer that adults didn’t like to tell children.  
  
I’M AFRAID I WOULDN’T KNOW , answered Death, in the equally innocent tone of someone who had never had cause to concern himself with the question. The girl almost looked disappointed, HOWEVER , I BELIEVE THAT, WHILE YOU MEET THE MOST STRINGENT JOB QUALIFICATION, YOU WOULD LIKELY BE REJECTED IF YOU APPLIED.  
  
“I’ve met some who wouldn’t,” the girl answered, “Briefly.”  
  
AS DID I, said Death, SHORTLY THEREAFTER. AND, he added, in the tone of a man whose job was at times more pleasant than he liked to admit, I THANK YOU FOR THE INTRODUCTION.  
  
“It wasn’t a problem,” the girl smiled, “I had fun. I hope they didn’t get one of the nice places.”  
  
I CANNOT SAY , said Death, BUT I DO REMEMBER FINDING IT RATHER WARM WHEN I SAW THEM OFF.  
  
There was another moment of silence, IF YOU DO NOT HAVE ANY IDEAS, Death said, I CAN SHOW YOU SOME OF THE OPTIONS.  
  
The girl considered for a moment.  
  
“No,” she said, “I think I’ll wait to see the others.”  
  
YOU MAY NOT SEE THEM DOWN HERE.  
  
“That’s fine,” the girl smiled, “I just found the stairs.”

I DON’T SEE STAIRS, Death commented.  
  
“Neither do I,” she smiled, and took a seat a few feet off the ground, “But I decided they could be there anyway,” she looked to a seat next to her, “Want to wait with me?”  
  
I’M AFRAID I AM BUSY, Death answered.  
  
“How busy?”  
  
RIGHT NOW, Death answered, VERY. 

The girl nodded approvingly, “That’s good, then. I’ll see you when you’re done.”  
  
IT MAY TAKE SOME TIME.

“That’s okay,” she said with a smile, “I can wait. I brought a book.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, dear readers,
> 
> Because of the nature of the story, as a fanfiction primarily focused on a cast of original characters, I think I should make clear my purpose in writing it. I do not want the reader to be confused or misled. I've read and loved fanfiction for almost as long as I've read and loved the Disc itself, and I know different readers want to read for different reasons. I want to give my readers every opportunity to assess my priorities, and compare them to their own. There are already another 10k words or so written and waiting to be posted, and I would hate to waste my reader's time. 
> 
> I am a writer. And I want to be a better writer. I want to improve myself, and the best way to improve is to look at those who succeed where you fail, and emulate them. So, this is a story of Discworld. But it is not particularly a story about the characters of Discworld. If a focus on OCs does not appeal to you, I understand. Pratchett created some of the richest and most vibrant characters in all of fiction. Sam Vimes, Rincewind the Wizzard, Granny Weatherwax and Moist von Lipwig have enriched not only the Discworld, but the Round one as well. My goal is, in essence, to make myself a good writer by studying the techniques of a great one. Creating vibrant characters is one of the strengths I am hoping to learn. And so, they are staying in the background, so the coal I am playing with does not unintentionally rub off on the diamonds I am emulating.
> 
> With Reasonably Priced Love and a Hard-Boiled Egg,
> 
> \- L.H.C


	2. In Which A Contract is Offered, and A Prayer Said

A while before that, ABOVE the streets of Ankh Morpork, Lord Downey had a solution in need of a problem. 

Two in fact. 

The first solution was simple, and one he was quite accustomed to. It was a particularly talented, and somewhat eager young Assassin. As the leader of the Guild of Assassins, he had many of that sort of solution. Some, however, did tend to want to solve a little bit more than others. The last time he’d had a solution this eager to be applied, it had ended rather badly for almost all involved, except for Corporal Nobbs of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, who had got a new crossbow. 

That did make it rather more important to engage this solution. There were, sadly, some roadblocks, which brought him to the second solution. 

The second solution was not, in fact, his. It was more of a solution for hire (Which his were too, he supposed,) and right now, it had been hired by Lord Ronald Rust. Its name was Mr. Slant. 

Mr. Slant was a lawyer, and quite an influential one. He was, as far as Lord Downey recalled, the only Guildmaster that the Guild of Lawyers had ever had. It was not that the Guild of Lawyers was particularly new to the city, it was one of the longest-running of the guilds, it was simply that it had only ever had one guild master. The guild of Assassins, while equally ancient, had had many guild masters over the years. That was to be expected in a guild where there was only room for one at the top, and a membership that specialized in making room. 

The role of Guildmaster was, traditionally, a job for life. Lord Downey had needed to take what might otherwise be seen as exceptional measures to ensure that his tenure would be as long as it had. He drank from a hip flask, which contained only water he had boiled himself, and ate meals from a garden he maintained in his quarters. While the guild’s halls seemed open and welcoming, the path to the Guildmaster’s office had several traps that were invisible to invited guests. They were visible to uninvited ones, though only briefly. 

Inside the office, the large marble statues that stood around the office were, in fact, a group of Trolls, who had permitted his assistants to take a hammer and chisel to them in exchange for enrollment and privileges for their children, $50 Ankh Morpork dollars a day, and Thursdays off. Lord Downey, an assassin, had prepared for all conceivable eventualities*.

Mr. Slant, a Lawyer, had simply found a loophole.

Mr. Slant shuffled some papers and placed on his nose a pair of pince-nez glasses, whose lenses had long ago fallen out. Downey wondered when that was, and if Slant had even noticed.

“You see, Lord Downey,” the zombie continued, “While I appreciate your guild’s traditions, Lord Rust is, I’m afraid, unwilling to wait for the child to complete the full course of her training, and does not want it said that a relative - However distant - Was unable to complete a course of study even the children of tradesmen have completed. Especially when she is, distant or not, his sole heir.” 

Downey understood Rust’s concern. While the Rust family had a long tradition of success (or at least, bribing their way out of blame for failure) in Ankh-Morpork, it had been plagued by misfortune following the previous heir’s decision to move to Fourecks after the Goblin scandal. Most of the remaining relatives had sought to defend young Gravid as best they could, and subsequently met with surprising and often painful fates.

Gravid’s own fate had been particularly painful. Downey had seen to that personally. 

The result, though, was that a small girl who, according to genealogy, was the daughter (by adoption) of the out-of-wedlock son of a disinherited aunt, was the only remaining Rust in the city, and his Lordship would not accept his estate being given over to commoners. How the adopted daughter of an out-of-wedlock son of a disinherited aunt was NOT a commoner was something that likely only made sense to people like Lord Rust. 

“I understand,” Downey said, “But the guild rules are what they are, Mr. Slant, I’m sure you understand. She can’t be a full assassin until she graduates.”

“Yes,” Slant answered, and continued “And I would never dream of asking you to violate your guild’s rules,” in the tone of one who would only do so because, as a zombie, he did not dream.

“So you see,” Downey shrugged, “There’s no-”

“However,” Slant continued, as if he hadn’t heard Downey speak, “If I may draw your attention to Guild of Assassins Charter, Article 2, Section 1”

“Yes,” Downey said almost before the word was out of his lips, “That’s the problem. No person shall be admitted into the guild of Assassins unless they have completed the full seven-year training course.”

He took a breath before continuing, which Slant took in with the air of a man watching someone else insist on a ritual he had long since give up as foolish, “And the fact that she has been at our school FOR seven years does not provide an excuse, Mr. Slant,” Downey continued. 

Slant’s gaze distinctly did not say that he had expected Downey to say that, and Downey knew he had made a mistake. His tone also refused to convey that sentiment. It refused so loudly Downey wondered if it could be heard on the street.

“Section 1b, Lord Downey,” Slant continued.

“Pardon?” He blinked. It took his mind a moment to remember the full section. 

“Continue to 1b, Lord Downey, if you would be so kind? I have a copy if you have forgotten.”

Downey, who had forgotten, spent an extra moment remembering for that comment, “Unless... The would-be assassin completes a guild-assigned inhumation of target present in the City of Ankh-Morpork prior to or on the day of the guild’s founding, the 3rd of Grune, Year of the Displeased Coyote.”

“Indeed,” the zombie said.

“Yes, but that was 350 years ago, Slant. There’s no-one alive who even remembers that!”

Slant’s look implied that there was a very important qualifier in that sentence that Downey may not have noticed. 

“We don’t do re-inhumings, Slant, the Medium and Exorcist Guild would bring us back for that,” he told him. 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Slant said, although Downey knew he had done just that several times for others who had sought to emulate his path to success, “But I have spoken to Lord Rust, and he has a contract for you to assign to the girl. The price is, I believe, quite reasonable. Fifteen Million Ankh-Morpork Dollars, the highest the guild is capable of accepting, per Bylaw 29?” 

The money would be useful, but he could hardly imagine the target. 

“You found someone still alive from back then?” Downey boggled at the thought. 

“Most certainly, Lord Downey.”

“...Do I know him?” Downey couldn’t help being curious.

“I would be shocked if you don’t at least know of him,” Slant answered, and held out a piece of paper in an envelope, “The contract, Lord Downey, you need only sign.” 

Downey took the contract. His eyes opened wide, and for a moment, he was struck dumb. 

“We can’t take this!” He said, “That’s... I mean, you CAN’T. How would we confirm the kill?”

“How indeed?” Slant said, managing, without any discernable change to facial expression or vocal inflection, to smirk confidently, “You would have to take her word for it.”

“I don’t... I mean, I don’t think she would lie-”

“I will send a guild observer,” Slant offered, “Who will testify under oath to her success.”

“That would be lying under oath.”

“Who would challenge him on it?”

“I would,” Downey said, who, as is so often the case, lacked morals and clung to standards for dear life, “If he was lying.”

“Your commitment to the truth is commendable. If somewhat expensive, if word gets out that you are so unbothered by failed contracts. I believe I catch the distinct sound of an air purifier to account for airborne toxins in your office’s ventilation? I am sure that was not cheap.”

Downey’s mind was racing. Slant was, he had always thought, a very serious man. And yet, he had just presented Downey with the legal equivalent of pieing himself in the face, tearing his trousers, and then tumbling out of the tent, “Well, I... I can’t. Or, well, I mean... This doesn’t qualify!”

“Oh?” Slant asked with feigned curiosity, and a raised eyebrow that told Downey he was being handed more rope for his own gallows, “And why not?”

“Not in the city at the time,” Downey said.

“Oh? I would think he was,” said Slant.

“I’d think people would have noticed,” Downey answered.

“I believe, Lord Downey, you are mistaken on that point. Ankh Morpork recognizes the doctrine of _Omnis Inferior,_ citing the case of His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, Cmd. City Watch, D. Ankh, BBM Dame Slightly School for the Youth v. Grag Ardent, G. Low Kingdoms, tried under the procedures of _habendi maior clavam._ ”

Downey translated in his head. Having the bigger stick was easy enough, and as for the first one...

“Omnis Inferior... All The Way Down?” He suggested.

“Precisely, Lord Downey.”

“I don’t think it means-” he started.

“All the way down, Lord Downey, means _ALL_ the way down. I trust you do not need me to explain the meaning of the word ‘All’?”

Lord Downey scrambled for an answer, “Well. I mean, still. Not human!”

“The Guild has inhumed pets, has it not? Dogs, cats, and the like?”

“Yes, but never an UNOWNED-”

“And on the 19th of March, Year of the Elevated Trout, did you not personally inhume a lion which attacked Guildmaster Arville while he traveled through Klatch?”

Lord Downey wasn’t sure ‘Get that damn thing’ counted as a formal guild contract, but he was pretty sure that Slant could make it if he wanted to.

“Okay, well,” Downey sighed, feeling defeated, “Well,” he straightened up, “You may be right, Mr. Slant. However, I am the Guildmaster, and it is my duty to accept and assign contracts.”

“Accept, yes,” Slant said, “But contracts can, I believe, specify a contractor.” Slant reminded him. 

“They can,” Downey agreed, “And they can also be refused, Mr. Slant. And I am refusing this one.”

“Very well,” Slant said, “Would you at least tell me on what grounds?”

Downey looked over the contract. It had been written out expertly. Usually he had the freedom to turn down a contract and end negotiations over the price being too low, but Rust was offering the maximum price. That made it more difficult. 

“I might remind you,” Slant suggested, “That you would not be permitted to add a name to the refuse-contract list AFTER the contract is suggested.”

He was right. He was a lawyer, that was his job. He was right even when he was wrong. 

Finally, Downey sighed, and gave up looking for an excuse, “Guildmaster’s Prerogative,” he answered confidently.

“I understand,” Slant said, taking the contract back. Downey breathed a small sigh of relief (he never breathed anything too deep, in case something was in the vents of the office.) 

“Of course,” Slant continued, “I will be filing a suit regarding my client’s unfair and biased treatment in the refusal.”

“I’m allowed to turn down anyone I like, Slant,” Downey objected. 

“You certainly are,” Slant answered, “And I am allowed to sue anyone I like.” 

“You don’t have any grounds to sue me for this, Slant. I’m the guild master, I have prerogative. There’s no case.”

“I’m afraid that’s where you are wrong. I have plenty of grounds to sue you. As His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, Cmd, BBM has observed, a good police officer can arrest someone simply for breathing. A good lawyer, Lord Downey, can do the same. In this case, I think I will pursue a strategy of _capti per ruber filum_ , Lord Downey, via methods of _Et perdet aurum tuum._ Such a case,” Even Slant’s face couldn’t hide the smile, “Could carry on the years. Quite expensively. And you may wish to study law quickly, Downey, as I intend to invoke _Et duc exercitum damni advocatorum_ before filing.”

Downey paled. He could face down other assassins, that was easy enough, but lawyers were different. They killed you with time and charged you for it. He could, of course, fight the issue. Rust was off the guild ledger for physical infirmity (it wouldn’t be sporting), and he was sure it wouldn’t be long before the old man was unable to sue anyone for anything (although Slant might provide evidence to question that assumption.) Still, Ronald Rust had, with the same oblivious determination with which he had dodged swords and arrows in a thousand losing military campaigns, resolutely refused to die. Not even Igors could explain how he was still alive, and they could explain the survival of a corpse in ten pieces. 

“Of course,” Slant continued, “We would accept a settlement of you using your _prerogative_ to advance a junior assassin to full status.”

Downey nodded. Right. That was it, then. Either he’d have to accept the contract, or let someone become an assassin without qualifying. The first was foolish, but the second was downright undignified, and an assassin maintained his dignity. 

“I’ll take the contract then,” he sighed.

“I thought you might,” Slant said with a reassuring ‘I win’ sort of smile, and handed it back. 

Downey sighed as Slant left, and turned the contract over in his hands. One of the statues in the corner, which had drawn the short straw and depicted the goddess Anoia draped in a forgotten dishrag, approached Downey as he examined it. 

“Wass dat ‘e gave you, den?” Asked the goddess of things getting stuck in drawers, in a voice that in no way matched her appearance.

“A contract, like he said,” he sighed, “Just not sure it can be done.” 

The divinity leaned on a distinctly club-shaped spatula and squinted at the words, “Whos it on, doe?” she inquired. 

“It’s not important,” he sighed as he filed it away, “I’ll explain it to her later.” 

“Oi!” Objected the most up-and-coming Goddess of Ankh Morpork, in her earthly incarnation as the troll Carrara, “You jus’ put it in a drawer, dat makes it my bizniss! So you bedda tell me or... Or may your pen knives be dull and your quills bent, see?”

Carrara seemed to be what Downey had been told was called a ‘method’ actor. He had been an everyday troll when he had received the carving, but had taken to it rather well, and rumor had it that he was accepting sacrifices and dispensing blessings on his off-days. Lord Downey had even been told that he sometimes even forgot his own name in favor of the goddess’s. While that was notable, Downey considered that, as a troll, forgetting his own name wasn’t really proof of anything.

“Oh, very well,” Downey said, “I’ll show you the target.”

Anoia seemed pleased. Downey nodded to a model of the disk that he kept in the corner of his office. 

“Wot, ‘e took out a contract on your map?” Anoia asked, not being one of the brighter divinities OR silicon-based lifeforms in the city. 

“No, An...Car...No,” he sighed, “Not the map. Look down.”

The divinity looked down, and whistled, “You don’t mean...?”

“I do,” Downey sighed. 

“Wow,” Carrara said softly. 

“Indeed,” Downey nodded. 

“I beddah make sure dat everyone can find dere spoons,” Anoia concluded, “‘Cause dat’s gonna be a lot of soop.” 

Downey tried to figure out how to respond and gave up. 

“It certainly will, Carrara.”

“Yours is in da tird drawer on da right, next to ya stove, Mr. Downey. Somewhere near da back.”

“Is it? I was looking for it this morning,” he sighed. 

“I know,” said the troll, “Dats why I told ya. It's under da matchbox, Mr. Downey, you never look under dere.” 

That was true, Downey thought. He’d stopped smoking recently, after the Goblin business, and liked to keep the matches out of the way to avoid temptation.

During his lunch break, he returned home and checked. He didn’t know how Carrara managed it, but sometimes he was so convinced of his role that the world seemed to give up and go with it, just to stop the arguing. This was a lucky break. It was best to take your own utensils to guild dinners, and this would be an important one. He instinctively said a silent thank-you to the gods that he’d be able to attend without worry. 

And then, when he got back to his office, he said a loud one. 

Just in case.

* * *

  
*He considered any eventualities he hadn’t conceived for rather qualified his successor for the job more than him.


	3. On The Nature of Discs, Turtles, Philosophers, and Ideas

At this point, it might be helpful to take a step back, and explain to the reader some information that will be necessary for understanding the rest of the story.

The first thing to know about would be The Great A’Tuin. The Great A’Tuin is the name of a massive turtle, upon whose back stand four slightly smaller, but still quite large in their own right, elephants. Upon the backs of those elephants, like a plate at an unnecessarily fancy buffet, lies the Discworld.

Some of the more deistically inclined philosophers on the Disc reasoned that if there were to be any Gods, A’Tuin was surely the most important one. This made sense to them, because everything relied on A’Tuin. They often speculated (on the ground floor, in well-insulated rooms,) just how much of the events on the Disc A’Tuin was aware of. That can’t be known, but it can be reasonably assumed, due to a lack of discquakes at that moment, A’Tuin was either not aware that a contract had just been taken out on its life, or at least was a very easygoing god. Had the Disc’s deistic philosophers found out about that, they might have taken some steps to have the contract stopped. They would, however, likely fail, as that would almost certainly involve leaving their insulated rooms. Deistic philosophers who exited their insulated rooms soon found themselves exiting the realm of the living altogether. 

The Gods of the Disc tended to look down (frequently while aiming) on atheists, but provided the atheists weren’t too loud about it, they rarely interfered. Atheists were wrong, and it was alright to be wrong, as long as you don’t go spreading it about and convincing others. Deists, however, were another matter, one taken far more seriously. It was one thing, after all, when someone thinks you don’t exist. It’s quite another for them to call you lazy. 

The next thing to understand is that on the Disc, things tend to happen in ways that make sense. Some people from the more rationally ordered dimensions may consider that to be a perfectly normal thing, and it is, but not for them. The people in rational worlds actually find that things rarely work out properly. By way of illustration, it is often remarked that the mascot bird of a nation on one such world, the Bald Eagle, actually has a rather pathetic cry. As a result, the creators of art on that world have given it a new one, and when people on that world watch film of a Bald Eagle opening its mouth, it emits the cry of the Red-Tailed Hawk. If such a creature were chosen to represent a similar nation on the Disc, it would, as a result, suddenly find itself with a piercing and dramatic call all on its own.

Nobody knows why this is, but one must admit, it does make sense. In fact, few people notice it happens at all, because it wouldn't make sense for it to be anything else. Residents of more rationally organized worlds may object, but are probably only doing so out of jealousy.

And just as it makes sense that the symbol of a powerful nation would make a powerful sound, it also makes sense that, if an unqualified person were given an impossible task, someone, somewhere, would have an idea to help. 

The alternative just wouldn't be any fun. 

\-------

In the great city of Ephebe, the artificer, philosopher, and inventor known as Kallionates (Kallion or Kal to everyone who wasn't his mother, including himself) had set out to do something incredible. He hadn’t known what it would be at first, and so he’d lain out his options. With some consideration, he had decided it would involve artificing. Everyone knew dwarves were the best artificers, which meant that Kallion would be much more incredible if he overtook them. Of course, to be TRULY incredible, it would have to involve something that people had thought very hard on for some time, including the dwarves. Ephebe was full of such problems, they were posted on a large paper in the central square, on little tabs that could be removed by eager and experimentally-minded philosophers. The ones involving artificing, though, had all been removed already, typically with the help of a stepladder. Those that hadn’t been removed often would have involved some investment from the wealthy, who typically didn’t want to give much money towards solving problems that, from their point of view, didn’t need to be solved. Or at least didn’t need to be solved for everyone. Almost all problems could be solved by the wealthy, and so they solved them for themselves, via careful application of large numbers of slaves and servants. They considered this to be solution enough, because after all, anyone could make use of that solution, they just needed to have enough gold to buy the slaves. If someone tried to solve it for everyone anyway, the wealthy often considered this a separate problem, and solved it in their usual ways. Kallion remembered the story of the inventor Thotades, who had come up with a method of erecting temples that would require only four men. He considered that would allow the Ephebians to erect more temples, and share with others the glory of Ephebe’s architecture and culture. 

When he had presented it to the tyrant, the tyrant had considered the possibility of spreading his empire around the great circle sea. Then he had considered the idea of the other 396 slaves who would no longer be erecting temples learning the meaning of words like ‘emancipation,’, and decided to spread the philosopher around instead.    
  
Bits of him still washed up sometimes.    
  
And so, Kallion knew, to do something TRULY impressive, he would need to find a problem that the wealthy would be willing to let an artificer solve. After all, doing something incredible was not particularly useful if nobody knew about it, and so he would need investors*. What Kallion didn’t know, however, was what sort of problem could be important enough that they would invest him** with the funds necessary to achieve it. And so, that was the problem he was working on right now. He didn’t know what the nature of the problem might be, but nor was he particularly invested***. However, he was determined he would figure it out eventually, and in pursuing his task, he kept a keen eye, and an open mind. 

The thing about open minds was that you should never let them be too open for too long, at least not without, well, minding them. If you did that, especially on the Disc, something could get in. In Kallion's case, something did. 

It went  _ click. _

* * *

  
*So called because they were wealthy enough that they didn’t need to carry moneypurses, and could simply write the amount on small notes that they kept in their vests.

**Make him rich enough to do the same

***That is to say, he was broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter combines two sections, because neither seemed large enough to be a chapter on its own. Typically speaking, of course, the introduction to the Discworld itself occurs on the first page, but I held off until here because I don't imagine a fanfiction audience will be particularly invested in me telling me something they already know. 
> 
> In addition, while the response is made more extreme, the story of Thotades (an inventor whose inventions were turned down because it would render slaves irrelevant) is based on (alleged) historical events in ancient Rome. If anyone can remember the actual specific persons involved, I'd appreciate that, it's been on the tip of my tongue for ages.


	4. Arsenic and Old Laws; OR, The Problem With Teaching to the Test

The test to graduate from the first year at the Assassin’s Guild was quite easy. For the most part, it consisted of surviving. However, people liked to feel that they’d learned something, so there was a simple exam consisting of successfully sneaking up on and shooting the guild’s oldest-serving training dummy, Tangles, with a crossbow bolt. Tangles had been made back when dummies looked a lot more like people, with painted faces and features, and so it was a lot closer to killing someone than it sounded. It was, however, not so close that a person couldn’t easily do it. Some would say that the fact that they didn’t push the act too hard in the first year proved that the Guild was not cruel. That would be a mistake. It was simply not stupid.   
  
Because Tangles’s eyes and ears were simply painted on, successfully sneaking up on Tangles provided no challenge to even the clumsiest of students. Because the dummy did not MOVE, the student was permitted to stand as close as six feet, and allowed to use three bolts, the guildmasters who had designed the test considered the only explanation for a student failing was an unwillingness to fire upon something that reminded them of a living person. Failing to inhume Tangles was considered evidence, therefore, that the student didn’t have the heart or stomach necessary for the Guild. It was typically recommended in that case that the student drop out, lest they find themselves missing the requisite kidneys, lungs, and trachea as well.    
  
Having completed seven years as a student at the guild, despite being given additional tries at the beginning of the year and mid-term, Eleanor Rust had failed to inhume Tangles an astounding 20 times.    
  
She had, however, inhumed several of her fellow students.    


* * *

Lord Downey knocked on the door of Panther House. Strictly speaking, as the guildmaster, he did not need to do so. However, rather more strictly speaking, sneaking up on any of the Guild dormitories without announcing yourself could have fatal consequences. 

There was a somewhat annoyed sound, and the door was opened by the house prefect. Because the guild’s rules required that no new students be admitted into a house’s year until the previous class had graduated or otherwise departed, it was also opened by two sub-prefects, a residential advisor, the captain of the house edifacing team, student liaison, and all eight teaching assistants. Indeed, as there were seven years of study in the Guild School, and the girl was in her eighth, it was opened by the entirety of Panther House*.

“Hello, Eleanor,” Lord Downey said, never quite sure what tone he should use to address her. She had been admitted at the self-professed age of ten, being allowed in early on the recommendation of Chrysoprase the troll, and at the time was quite young for a student. The problem was that she hadn’t noticeably changed since then. The guild school, it seemed, was not the only place she had trouble reaching her next year.

“Hello, sir,” the entire student body of Panther House answered back, quite respectfully.

“Are you, ah, doing well?” He asked, “How old are you now?”

“I’ll be turning ten next week,” the girl smiled.

“And so right now you are...?”

“Ten,” the girl answered confidently. 

Downey wondered, not for the first time, how she managed to get such good grades in mathematics. Then again, he supposed he wouldn’t want to give the girl a poor grade either. 

“Do you, ah, mind if I sit down?” 

The girl tilted her head slightly, like a confused dog. His friend Lord Vetinari had a quite perpetually confused terrier named Wuffles, but in an all-Ankh ‘Confused Dog’ competition, her mannerism would have given even Wuffles a run for his money. At least if Wuffles was still capable of running or, more pointedly, figuring out where the competition was being held.

“...Were you planning on doing so rudely, sir?” The girl asked. Downey sighed, remembering the girl’s particular way of thinking, and changed tact.

“Ah, that is to say, may I have a seat?”

The girl looked around, and decided she had an answer. 

“They’re all guild property except for the one beside my bed, sir. They’re already yours, sir. But,” she added, in the same tone that many people used when they were trying to explain things to her, one which implied that they were trying to remind her to say ‘please’ “If you tell me which one you want, I can ask Carrara to bring it to your office tomorrow after she receives her morning prayers.”

Downey sighed. When most people said things like that, they were being cheeky, but the girl seemed to be genuinely trying to help. Besides, he’d asked her about it before, and she’d told him she just wanted to make sure she understood things. He knew she wouldn’t have lied. The girl treated lies like she treated doors, as something that happened to other people. She preferred windows, which for the purpose of this metaphor, meant that when someone lied to her, she cracked them open and let in the fresh air.

“I’m asking if you would object to me sitting down in one of them.”

“Not at all,” said the girl.

Downey, well aware that she sometimes needed prodding to bring up things most people would take as understood, added, “In which ones would it be wise for me to do so?”

Her brow furrowed in deep thought, the way that Vetinari did when one of the Times’s Crosswords was particularly puzzling. Finally, she came to a conclusion, looking up as if she had just had an idea about seven across, and wanted to check if it matched thirteen down.

“Would you like to be able to stand up again, sir?” The girl asked helpfully.

“Yes.”

“Then you should sit in the one by the central table, sir. Left or right, but don’t use the one on the right if you’d also like to wake up tomorrow morning.” 

He sat on the one on the left, and the girl walked over to join him. Out of habit (because assassins who want to live long lives should never allow someone to walk up to them without watching,) he forced himself to watch. He hated watching the girl walk. She always seemed to have too many joints in her legs. It wasn’t that she had more than the normal three, at the ankle, knee, and hip, it was just that she somehow managed to make that seem like too many anyway. While her face was, sometimes, like that of a confused dog, her movement was always that of a hungry spider. 

She sat in the chair on the right, and smiled, “Pressure-plate, sir, I don’t weigh enough.” 

Then she seemed to realize something, “Wait! I should offer you tea,” but after a moment a look of worry crossed her face, “Only I’m afraid I’ve been working on building my poison tolerance, sir, so my selection is limited. Would you prefer arsenic or hemlock?”

The girl had not let her failure to graduate stop her from advancing along the assassin’s path in other ways. That was admirable, at least. He smiled, “I’ll take the arsenic.”

“Good,” she said, and smiled as if he’d passed some sort of test of character.

She skittered off to the kitchen. It should not, Lord Downey considered, be possible to skitter with only two legs. Then again, it should probably also not be possible to fail to graduate your first year more than once. Or TA for eight different masters at a time, while still competing on an edifacing team. It should not, indeed, be possible to do much of what the girl did. 

And yet, she did it. As the years rolled on, she accepted each new responsibility with a calm if somewhat unnerving smile, and the full-forced dedication of a charging rhinoceros that, while it will acknowledge that there is some sort of standing structure in front of it, is determined not to let that divert its course. 

The girl returned with two steaming cups of tea, and a tin of powdered rat poison. 

“One lump or two, sir?” She asked politely. 

“Two, thank you,” he answered. She nodded approvingly, and he wondered for a moment how she always managed to do so in a way that made him think, momentarily, that her approval was worth pursuing. 

“Will you be here long, sir?” She asked, “I’m helping write a lesson plan for Miss Jones.” 

He didn’t know why he was surprised. Writing lesson plans was, of course, often a part of the job of the TA. It was certainly unusual for it to be assigned to a first-year, but it was also unusual for a first-year to have sat in on graduate-level courses in her spare time. At this point, she could probably have taught some of the classes. She could certainly, as the previous three masters of Panther House had discovered, create staff vacancies. 

His mind cast back through the names of the various guild members, and settled on Miss Jones. 

“Do you, ah... Does it bother you, that you work for Miss Jones?”

The girl looked almost offended, “Of course not!” She said, “Miss Jones is a very smart young woman, and has the potential to make a real difference for the guild. She was top of her year for the last six years, sir, it’s an honor to work with her!”

“Yes,” Downey shifted in his seat, but not too much in case there was an extra pressure plate she had forgot about, “But in that seventh year, YOU were top of the year. Does it not bother you that you are working for someone who came to the guild at the same time you did?”

“I didn’t graduate, sir,” she reminded him, “That’s not her fault. I can’t blame her for me not graduating. Why would I be bothered by that? She’s very smart, and yes, maybe she doesn’t like the practical side of things as much as she should and maybe she gets all quiet sometimes when she gets a job, bu-”

He raised his hands in a gesture of peace, “I wasn’t questioning Miss Jones’s qualifications, Eleanor, I was questioning yours.”

“I’m top of my class, sir!” She sounded even more upset,

‘You’re all of your class,’ he thought to himself, but said “Yes, Ella. That’s the problem. You are overqualified for the first year.” 

The look of confusion passed over her face again, “Sir? I haven’t passed the final exam, sir, how can I be overqualified?”

That was another problem with the girl. She was very direct. She never quite understood the nuances or purposes of various things in everyday life, and in place of comprehension, had slotted in a general understanding that the purpose of various rules was to follow them. She seemed to have long since given up on figuring out why. As far as he could tell, despite all his attempts to explain the situation to her, she believed the purpose of the first-year final was to hit a dummy with a crossbow. It would not have occurred to her that that was meant to test her capacity for a particular task, one in which she’d proven herself more than capable. Nor, he suspected, would it have mattered to her that much if it did. The girl cared about rules. 

Lord Downey was glad she’d been sent to him instead of Slant.

“Ah, yes,” he said warmly, taking a sip and tasting the bitter almonds, “But it would seem that, in light of your time here, we might find an alterna-”

“No!” The girl said forcefully, “I don’t want to skip the exam! There’s RULES! I CHECKED! I can’t graduate the first year until I hit the dummy. It’s the RULES. If people go around killing each-other without being assassins, that’s a crime, but it’s only a crime because the guild made the rules. If the guild starts changing the rules, just because it wants to, then it doesn’t have assassins anymore, it just has murderers! Murderers for hire! THUGS!” She looked like she might cry. He did not want to be in the shoes of people who made her cry. Those shoes were typically below ground. 

He’d been over this many times with her, and sighed, “I know, Eleanor. I wasn’t asking you to break the rules. Indeed, we have found another rule.”

The girl lit up, “Really?”

“Yes,” he said, “I have a contract for you. Students can take contracts.”

“Contracts can only be given to THIRD YEARS, sir. I’m FIRST,” she was clearly upset again.

He smiled, “Yes. But, Mr. Slant has drawn my attention to a point in the guild charter. According to Article 2, Section 1-”

“No person shall be admitted into ranks of the guild of Assassins unless they have completed the full seven year training course, unless that person has, at the request of the guildmaster or council, successfully completed the inhumation of a person residing in Ankh-Morpork on the day of the signing of this Charter, 3 Grune, Year of the Displeased Coyote, or completed a contract so assigned having been themselves an Ankh-Morpork resident or citizen on the same day,” she said, and Downey was a little annoyed that she had gotten the words more accurate than he had, “But I wasn’t in the city then!”

The tiny bit at the back of his mind that had wondered about the number of tenth birthdays the girl had noted that she hadn’t said she wasn’t ALIVE. 

“Yes, well,” Downey smiled, “Your target was.”

“REALLY?!” The girl looked as excited as she could be, “I... Who? How? Who? Where? Who? And you promise you’re not just doing this so I get out of first year? You promise?”

“I promise,” he smiled, “The contractor requested you by name,” she handed the girl the paper. 

“Contract on-” The girl’s eyes opened wide. So wide it looked for a moment like she had more than two, and she looked up at him. He couldn’t place the expression on her face. He’d never seen it, certainly not on her. The closest he could think was that it was like a child who, having placed a loose tooth under their pillow one night, has lifted it up and, rather than the expected Ankh-Morpork half-dollar, found the tooth has been replaced by the entire treasury of The King of Tsort.

“A’TUIN?!” She smiled widely, “Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir, can I take it? Wait, it has my name, that means I already have. I have to. Well, I don't have to have to, but I have to or I would have to leave and I don't want to leave. And, and because he was below the city, but we have  _ Omnis Inferior, _ that means-” She looked up, and then leaped at him fast enough that he couldn’t react. For Lord Downey, quite possibly alone among people who had been lept at by Ella Rust, this was not a fatal oversight. She wrapped her arms around him, and was silent for a moment, before finally whispering “Thank you, sir.” 

Downey felt a little water on his chest. 

“Are you crying, Ms. Rust?”

“Yes, sir, sorry sir,” she said, “I can’t control it, sir, I’m not trying to, I just never thought I would, I mean, I never thought ANYONE would, and now I am and-” she seemed to realize something, and pulled back, before addressing him in the tone of a mother reassuring a child that a scraped knee wasn’t as bad as all that, “Don’t worry, sir, they’re happy tears. I don’t have to kill you for those.” 

Lord Downey was, despite all precautions, relieved.

* * *

*There were, technically speaking, a few graduate students in Panther House, who were allowed to live off-campus. Most of them elected to live quite far off campus, occasionally on other continents, just to be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had the bit about Tangles as part of the previous chapters, and while I would like to claim I made the decision to move it to the start of this one out of a belief it was better here, the fact is I just forgot to copy it last time. Whoops.


End file.
